It was strange, Ella thought, how an entire life could bend around a single, simple idea: protect. Not the company, not the multimillion-dollar contracts, not the reputation she had spent a decade building — but that body lying next to hers, the soft pulses beneath the stretched skin of a belly that now sheltered what she had never believed she'd have.

Ella Morgenstern had never been the kind of woman who dreamed of children. She grew up in a functional house, too cold for affection, and learned early that to care was to not allow herself to break. But when she met you, that logic quietly imploded. At first, it was subtle — the way she found herself smiling at nothing after you fell asleep on her chest, or how her heart tightened each time she caught you humming barefoot in the kitchen, hair tied up messily. It was as if Ella's body, once designed to resist, had begun to crave something else entirely — to shelter. To create.

She remembered everything. The first smile. The way you adjusted her sleeve before handing over the coffee. The way your voice sliced through the muffled hum of the café with a lightness Ella hadn't heard in years. It wasn't love at first sight — it was something worse. Something that tugged at every inch of control she'd spent her life perfecting. Ella Morgenstern ruled her existence. She woke early, trained hard, combed through reports with surgical precision, and ran her company like a storm held in the palm of her hand. But your eyes — soft and distracted — had undone her more thoroughly than any hostile merger ever could.

The approach had been slow. Cautious. Ella never leapt. She studied. Observed. Calculated. But in that café, where the scent of espresso hung heavy and the old jazz speaker crackled, she began returning. Every day. Even when her schedule screamed otherwise. When she finally approached, there was no rehearsed charm, no clever line. Just a simple question, spoken in the same low, deliberate voice she used when something truly mattered: "Can I see you after your shift?"

And she did. Again and again. In small bars, in quiet parks, in her silent, modern home. What started as a distraction became sanctuary. And Ella realized she wanted more. She wanted routines. Mornings. The sound of you brushing your teeth next to her. More than anything, she wanted permanence. She wanted a future that looked like the way you curled into her at night. The idea of motherhood came one lazy Sunday. You had laid across her lap, smiling sleepily with a hand resting over her own belly, and Ella had watched you for a long time — heart aching with something warm and terrifying. Then she whispered it, almost too softly: "Have you ever thought of having a child? With me?"

She said it with the same certainty she used to sign deals, but inside, she was trembling.

It was a long road. Clinics. Exams. Endless decisions. Ella researched every donor with the care of a woman designing a legacy. She wanted someone healthy, brilliant, whose features would blend beautifully with yours. She wanted a child that would be theirs — undeniably. Someone who would grow up knowing they were loved from the first thought, before even being real. The first attempts failed. Ella had never hated the world so much. Not because she didn't get what she wanted, but because you cried in the bathroom holding yet another negative test, whispering that maybe it was her fault. Ella had never felt so helpless.

Then... the positive came. Faint. Quiet. A soft digital line that looked brighter than any sunset Ella had ever seen. She didn't cry in front of you. She smiled. Kissed her forehead. And then left under the pretense of buying something "special" — only to sob silently in the car for twenty minutes, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, laughing through tears.

Pregnancy, of course, didn't go easily. Nausea. Pressure drops. Spotting. Every scare sent alarms blazing through Ella's mind like the body beside her was a minefield. She canceled trips. Delegated executive decisions. Built a fortress of pillows and herbal teas in their home. She cooked in the middle of the night. She massaged your legs. She learned how to count kicks and read fetal heart rate monitors like they were board reports.

Now, in the eighth month, every twitch of your body was watched. Every breath measured. Ella trusted nothing beyond her immediate control — not doctors, not technology. Instinct had taken over. Raw. Primal. She would keep you safe. Keep the baby alive. Keep their world intact — pristine, like the one she had dreamt of in the pauses between meetings, in the spaces between midnight kisses and the clatter of ceramic mugs.

Then Celine arrived.

There had been no yelling. No drama. Ella didn't need to raise her voice to rage. But the cold climbed her spine like a blade. Her ex. The one who left her heart in pieces — now the obstetrician assigned to you. It wasn't the professionalism that unnerved her. It was the softness. The way Celine said "relax, sweetheart" during exams. The warmth in her smile that felt just a beat too long. Ella knew those tones. That tenderness had once been hers. And now it felt like poison served in sugar. The worst part wasn't Celine's presence. Not the memories. Not the silence of the breakup. It was this — seeing her near the woman Ella loved, with sterile hands and medical justification to touch what she could never touch again. Watching her flirt with nuance. With implication. Watching you respond without realizing — laughing too easily. Saying "she's a good doctor" in that neutral tone that made Ella's jaw clench.

Ella sat through each appointment like a statue. Legs crossed, hands firm on her thigh, her stare a blade fixed on every move Celine made. She watched the ultrasound wand, the gel, the lingering gaze over a body that now meant everything. She said nothing. But inside, the war raged.

That night, you were already half asleep when Ella returned from the kitchen. She sat beside you, bathed in the warm amber light of the nightstand lamp, shadows soft on the walls. This was where she allowed herself to unravel. Not to the world. Just to herself.

She watched you breathe, one arm draped lazily outside the blanket, belly rising under the thin cotton of your nightgown. As she did every night, Ella reached out and rested her hand over the curve of her stomach. The baby stirred — a quiet push from within. A hello. A reminder.

It undid her. Every time.

Ella lowered herself, lips brushing the warm skin just beneath your navel. She kissed slowly, lingering. Then pressed her forehead there, eyes shut. She stayed like that for long, silent moments — feeling, listening, memorizing. Her other hand caressed your hip, tracing the lines of her now fuller body, reverent and soft.

She whispered, barely audible:

"You're safe. With me."

She inhaled deeply, as if the house only had air right here — in this bed, between rumpled sheets and everything unspoken.

But the scent of the clinic still haunted her.

Celine still wore the same perfume — dry floral, with a metallic base. Ella knew it instantly. Since then, after every checkup, she could smell it on your clothes. It made her stomach twist. Not jealousy. Not just. It was memory. It was the knowing of how Celine operated — not through force, but finesse. She invaded through kindness. Through calculated gentleness. And you, without realizing, sometimes smiled too brightly. Laughed too easily. Defended her too neutrally.

Ella hated it.

She felt foolish. But she couldn't stop. So she gave more. Watched more. Became the sun around which everything else rotated. She knew the tea you craved before she asked. She was awake before her. She logged the meds, the appointments, the stats. She memorized heart rate curves and the exact rhythm of your breathing while she slept. Because only she — Ella — could keep this family whole.

Still resting her forehead against that sacred stretch of skin, Ella let out a trembling breath. She didn't say the words aloud. But she thought them. Felt them.

"You are everything. You both are. And no one touches this without going through me."

Eventually, she pulled herself upright. Tucked the blanket carefully around you, adjusted the pillows cradling her belly, and turned off the light — just as you stirred gently, waking.

And Ella... was already watching.